Greesie Wrenchwield
Appearance Several things are obvious upon meeting her: *She is pierced in several places, and all the jewelry is painstakenly polished, despite the state of her clothing. *She is always sporting a stain of some sort, either from oil or other machine lubricants or from her latest meal. *There are always a pair of goggles on her person. *The weapons in her toolbelt sport runes. The arclight spanner has green runes, the hammer has red runes, the pliers have yellow runes, and the screwdriver has blue runes. They would indeed pertain to their particular element, but she'll never confirm this. *She enjoys showing off her lovely dark green skin. 'Personality' To put it bluntly, this chick's got an attitude. She's rude, loud, and generally insulting to people she knows and people she doesn't alike. She will not hesitate to make it clear how she feels about individuals, whether it's the color of their hair, their race, or something as innocuous as the shape of their head. This propensity to speak her mind has inexplicably endeared her to several people, who dub her 'brutally honest,' though she herself will then correct them and shorten it to 'brutal.' Not a particularly war-prone being, it would appear at first glance that she's all bark and no bite. The lack of weapons on her person would support this summation. When asked about her past, she will make obvious generalizations, change the subject, or decline to answer entirely. She has been known on occasion to make vague references to gobs 'out to get her' but when asked to point them out, she will invariably fail to do so. For all intents and purposes, it appears as if she can't give a rat's ass about anyone but herself. Furthermore, she will continue to do so unapologetically. 'Currently' She's currently conscripted herself to be a radio hostess. She's done workin' the proverbial corner and wants in on the real gold! Also employed by the Crashburn Cartel. Likely locations include the Wyvern's Tail, Valley of Honor, Bilgewater, or the Slums. 'History' 'Kezan: The Three B's' This series is written in first person point of view and was originally intended for a blog audience. Since it contains a lot of vital information (and it was a lot of fun to write) in regards to Greesie's current behavior and predicaments, I felt it important to include in lieu of a summary. Part 1: Brains Papa always said I would go far. “Greesie, kiddo,” he’d say, “You got yourself all three B’s! You’re set for life!” Brains, Body, and Boldness, the three qualities he’d tote above everything else. When we walked down the coastal highway he would point at other gobs along the path. “Look at the Body on that one!” He’d shout. He’d see the billboards advertising Kaja’kola and praise the Brains of that brilliant gob who decided it was worth digging up the stinking green kajamite. He’d read in the rags about what the Trade Princes were up to and marvel at their boldness. Surely, the makings of greatness, to have all three. My papa? Not a whole lot to look at. Meek, as it turned out, but with enough upstairs to know his place. His real talent, the thing that put food on the table and a roof over our heads, was with a wrench. The Wrenchwields were his legacy, passed down to him from his father, and his father before him, and despite the fact that my Ma died shortly after I was born, having a scrawny daughter in the shop didn’t deter him from passing on the torch. In a way I guess this whole mess was his fault. His shop was his baby. I mean, I was, too, but the shop was bigger than both of us, yaknow? It was proof that two gobs could hold their own in the world, without help from nobody, without getting beaten down by the greedos and gobblers that make their living off the sweat and backs of others. At least, it started out that way. It was that way through my childhood, when I was only tall enough to reach the first few drawers of the workbench. It stayed that way while I ran errands, when I was big enough to drive a trike of my own. It was that way until I caught him sobbing one night into his Kaja’kola. “Oilex! Sell it all!” He sobbed. That idea couldn’t be his, I thought. Must be the Kaja’kola talking. That was years ago, though. We lasted a good long while before the collectors came, and I learned a lot. He showed me how to hammer a plate flat, how to set screws without warping the metal, how to line a tube with grease without clogging it, how to seal a fuel tank. I guess that last one was a lesson learned through error. Hah. We weren’t much different from other gobs- we secretly loved the explosions. Well. He did. He always had this stupid grin on his face. I frequently lost eyebrows and nose hair. We didn’t have a glass cover on our extinguisher case, let’s put it that way. I was old enough to look at the books when I knew the easy days were gone. I remember that day. He handed me the latest collection statement from the bank, all those negative macaroons. Minor repairs and rebuilds didn’t rack up the moolah the way it used to. Or maybe it never did, and he just hid it from me. Either way, he told me to drop it off for him, with the usual ‘I owe yah, pal.’ He told me to smile pretty for them, and grab some Kaja’kola on my way home. I decided to do something special for him, after dropping the IOU off. The bank gobs weren’t friendly about it this time, and I knew we likely weren’t going to get another month’s extension. But what could a gal do? There are lots of ways for a chick to make some scratch without getting her hands dirty, but that leaves other parts open to soil. Told myself I’d never sink to that. Not while I had choices. I rode on down to the Kajamite mines to check on a project we’d been working on- one of the digger claws was on the fritz, and I thought I’d review the repair before grabbing some fresh kola. It was lucky I was there, the cog damned thing was flinging mountainside at the poor slaves. Kajamite dust hung thick in the air, tinting everything blue and giving the air a faint bite to it. It didn’t bother me none at first, maybe stung in my nose a bit, but it wasn’t until I was in the control console that I noticed things were off. Colors were funny. Blue started taking on purplish hues, greens faded out. Brown was very bright, and grey. The shards of kajamite crystal shone like gems. That’s when I heard it. Rumble rumble. An insult if I ever heard one. I smacked the console good with my wrench. It repeated itself. “Hey!” I yelled at it, “Quit your thrashin’ and dig already!” It didn’t occur to me at the time that screaming at a machine could achieve anything. Still don’t quite know how, and frankly I don’t care, but it stopped its thrashing, and got to digging already. Rumble. Well, yes, I thought. You’re welcome. Any time. I remember getting home later, after my head cleared, and wondering. Talking to inanimate objects- that’s a one way trip to the funny farm, innit? I didn’t tell Pa. I didn’t tell nobody. But, of course, I didn’t just forget about it. Next day in the shop, I sat down with my old trike, the tinkering project of my lifetime, and just talked to it. About Oilex. About Pa. About the hopes and dreams of a gal gob with a broke dad and nothing to her name but a rusted trike. I think that last bit was what started the whole thing. It bent for me, when I took the wrench to it. I didn’t have to turn it, I didn’t have to pull. It just bent, and that front wheel alignment I’d been working on for the past week just fell into place. Didn’t even have to soften it with the stupid blowtorch. I took it out for a joyride, and when I got back, three grim bruisers all dolled up in monkeysuits had my Pa cornered by the garage “We’ll update you with the results of the investigation, Mr. Wrenchwield.” The smallest one said. He looked like a seedy lawyer type, too. Beady eyes and hair slicked back. Looked odd with the broad shoulders. “We have faith that your… safety protocols are up to date, but we must be sure.” He had the smile of a shark, all teeth and no warmth. Every gob knows safety protocols are for show, anyway. Guidelines, really. Nothing you can be arrested for. They left, and I asked Pa where they were from. He said the bank. Of course, though that didn’t explain why they were threatening to bring him down for safety and compliance reasons. Then again, since when did the bank need an excuse to take back what was rightfully theirs, anyway? Pa owed too much on the shop to really call it his anymore. I went to bed that night and stared at the ceiling of our little home, wondering. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was really wrong. He sent me out the next day on an errand run. The list was unusually long, but looking back, I can see it was on purpose. He was trying to keep me from coming home too early. I didn’t take my time, like I could have. No joyride around the KCH for me, no haggling the Swindle Street vendors. Looking back, that might have been the wiser course of action, but that’s neither here nor there. ‘Wise’ isn’t one of the B’s. I pulled up, and immediately I knew something was wrong. It was only midday but the garage was closed, aluminum siding pulled down over the main bay where we did our repairs. The front door to our little house was wide open. A too-nice roadster was out front. I ran inside. They had him cornered in the kitchen, cowering by the stove. Both his eyes were black, so swollen he couldn’t see none. He held one of his hands, his right, the one that held the wrench, and I could see even from the pantry that it was broken in too many places to have been an accident. Two bruisers were kicking him, and he was sobbing for them to take what they wanted and go. “Your shop aint worth the ground it’s sitting on, Wrenchwield! What would we want with any of this crapola here, huh?” The shark-mouthed gob from the day before asked. I recognized the oil in his hair- it had that Oilex whiff of petroleum to it. My Pa kept his sobbing and the blighted gob kept on. “Your daughter… now she’s a pearl, aint she? Great curves. I bet she’d do real well in cabaret. Aint that right, boys?” The two bruisers nodded their big stupid heads. I stopped, hearing that. “No! Not Greesie- take me, I’ll give you anything you want! But not Greesie.” Here I thought all goblins were supposed to be selfish and greedy. Still, I can’t call my Pa smart, no matter how much I appreciate what he wanted for me. Not that it matters overly much; he was doomed to die anyway. “You’ve got a broken hand, Wrenchwield. You’re useless. We should just kill you to spare the slums the trouble of supporting you!” The bruisers had guns on them. Big barreled rifles, goblin made, potentially explosive. I didn’t really think about it. I was already in the house, and it seemed like the right thing to do. It was better than watching him die. “Take me.” I said. They turned. The shark-mouthed one smiled big and sharp for me. I smiled as prettily as I could in return. The willing slave receives fewer beatings. “Well. Guess today’s your lucky day, Wrenchwield.” The oiled hair muttered. Pa whispered my name from across the room, but I don’t think he knew where I was. They escorted me out, the two big gobs blocking my view as I craned my neck over my shoulder. ‘Bye, Pa.’ I called. That was the last thing I said to him. I knew beyond all doubt that something was horribly wrong there when I was escorted to the roadster, a nice big Oilex logo painted along the side. Part 2: Body The machine was dark from the inside. It was hot, and I was thankful they dressed me down for presentation. It smelled like burning oil and the gears groaned every time it was used. I knew when it was time to smile because spotlights from behind the glass would come on and blind me. So long as I bared those pearly whites, they left me alone. The Gallywix Perk Machine was, admittedly, a marvel of goblin engineering. It operated on weights, so the only potentially explosive part was the motor that levered them. You bet your behind I kept my eye on it, too. It was one of those places a gob really doesn’t want a gout of fire to the face. Regardless, the machine was designed like a giant roulette wheel. When one of Gallywix’s favorites was up for a reward, they’d come down into the basement and flip a switch. It rotated, and wherever it stopped was the prize they got. I wasn’t the only chick up for grabs, but there were other prizes. There was gold, mostly, but a few golden tickets to fame and stardom that any honest gob would drool over were also up for grabs. The fabled one-shot launch to the upper echelons of goblin society and all the perks that came with it was among them. The Gallywix Perk Machine was the stuff of legends, at least until I found myself seated inside it, spinning every so often, dazed by the smell of gas fumes. I’m not sure, really, how long I was left there. Honestly, I can think of worse ways to be sold into slavery. I’ve heard of worse ways, that’s for sure. I got fed regular and got as much water as I wanted. I got a bath when I needed and makeup when I started to look hollow and lost. All considered, they took good care of me, and I didn’t have to grind no hips to have that. At least not right away I didn’t. Call me strange but I didn’t spend much time thinking about myself. I just hoped Papa had the good sense to leave town, before they came back for him. I wasn’t worth the macaroons he owed. The spinner finally stopped on my block, one day. I remember the colored lights blinking around the edges of my vision, a honky tonk alarm going off to announce my release. I was lifted out of the chair I’d been seated in for however long, and I met the gob who now officially owned me. I can’t say I was impressed. Short, balding, blind, and bookish, Nob Hobbins was about as interested in me as he was in a swift and painful death. When I rose out of the machine, his greedy little bespectacled eyes had been fixated on the cell next to mine, labeled ‘UN TOLD RICHES’ in elaborately lit script. The look of hopes crushed was something that would never leave me- or him for that matter. I almost felt bad for the cat. Not too much, though, I was mostly just glad to finally leave the machine. His interest stayed elsewhere. I got lucky. When we got to his seaside villa, arguably the nicest home I’d been in on Kezan, he gave me a brief tour of the place- which consisted of ‘do what you want, but stay out of the office.’ I found the guest room on my own and went to sleep. First time I’d lain down in what felt like years. I slept a lot. He didn’t bother me. I know he came and went a lot because he slammed the door both ways, otherwise he didn’t even venture to my side of the house. When I wasn’t passed out in my room, I was lavishing in the extremely expensive liquor cabinet of a wealthy man. Ah… if the reasons had been different, I would’ve been living every teenage gob’s dream of the easy life. I got so drunk one time I ended up going for a swim with one of his leisure trikes. I wonder if they ever fished it back up… hah. I started counting days and nights by hangovers. I did eventually get tired of it, but by the time I did, enough time had passed that every time I looked out the bedroom window it seemed to be a different world to me. Earthquakes, flash floods near the base of the mountain, torrential downpours, Cog, it was like the end of the world was creeping up on us. I didn’t know at the time that it was, but it helps to know one can see that sort of thing coming, eh? I remember the first day I didn’t drink. My head hurt so bad, my stomach so weak from all the crap I’d put in it, I couldn’t do much but lay in bed. When I got up, I drew a bath, and tried to get the demon hammers out of my head. I was just lounging in the tub, popping bath bubbles with my toes, when I noticed things started to get fuzzy. I’m pretty sure it was the scented soap, but it seems this sort of thing always happened when I was in some bizarre state of intoxication. Burble. That was a nice thought. Let it go? Sure. I’d let it all go. Burble burble. Well… maybe that’s true. Let a river go and it could destroy whole towns. The tub had a point. I thanked it and dried myself. It didn’t occur till the next day that I’d again spoken to an inanimate object, and I was glad, for once, I had no one to tell about it. Whenever I got out of this thing with Nob, I was going to see a licensed psychiatrist and get my head checked out. At least, that was the plan, initially. I began to think about my future. Could I really spend the rest of my life as a drunken ol’ maid, cooped up in a nice house with no one to talk to but a bathtub and the drain pipes? Well, yeah. I could. But ‘boring’ isn’t one of the B’s. That’s when I started to pay attention. See, Nob and I, we didn’t interact. I was like that pet goldfish that he would feed until it ate itself to death. I think he was hoping I’d drink my liver into oblivion. Instead, I watched him from the hallway across from his office and from the second story window when he would take his roadster up to the bank to conduct his business. He was gone longest when he took a big thick leather book, and I knew that whatever I could possibly learn from him was in that tome. I had to get my hands on it. I waited a long time for him to leave it unattended. There was one trike he took a great liking to, and whenever he took it out, it was likely to meet with some very fancy executives. It was classy, I’ll give him that, but it wasn’t a miracle machine. I’ll admit to some tampering on my end, but needless to say, I guaranteed myself some time alone with the book- there was no way he was getting to his appointment with a piston missing halfway into his drive. The door to the office wasn’t closed, or locked, which I found funny for the sort of thing Nob was responsible for. Much like my first meeting with Nob, I wasn’t impressed. The office was small, cramped, dimly lit, and unorganized. The only discernable order in that excuse for an office was the leather account book. Every line was painstakingly written in neat rows with exact figures, red ink used for deficits and green for gains. He had names, addresses, family members, trades, associations, even vehicle descriptions listed for every one of Gallywix’s clients and patrons. Most of them were sorry gamblers, all clustered in a neat column of red-splattered notations for bets against Footbomb, bets against the weather, bets for cards and dice. I look back and marvel at myself- how could I have been so stupid? Of course Pa was in that book. Of course he was in the red column. I didn’t expect to find what I did. Gambling debts with too many zeroes piled up, none of them repaid, bills owed for the loan on the shop outstanding and accruing massive amounts of interest. I’d known he liked to roll the dice every now and then… but the Oilex stock, that’s what really punched me in the gut. It took a while for things to line up, for me. Why would my Pa invest in that junky corporation? All they ever made were crappy products that replaced the only viable alternatives on the market. Their dealings were notoriously corrupt and ruthlessly efficient. Their biggest crimes, and the dealings that got the most attention from the Rags, was their abuse of patent law. So many gobs claiming that they had the idea first, and then were mysteriously silenced days later. Everyone with a good head on their shoulders knew to avoid them at all costs, and to keep anything of value absolutely secret. So why would Pa… I looked back to the book. There, in a neatly scrawled notation, was an amount loaned to one Brazo Wrenchwield for a patent application. I flipped the page over, trying to find what, exactly, the patent was for. I couldn’t find anything else, though. It made sense, in that moment. Why they chose to wait until he was pinching pennies to corner him. Why they tried to get him to sign over the rights to his design while he was vulnerable. Stupid gob! If only he’d had a little less pride. He might not be dead in an alley somewhere, as any debtor has to end up. I knew I wasn’t worth the macaroons he owed. I lost track of time. I stayed over that book a lot longer than I’d planned. Nob stomped back in, what remained of his hair tousled and in disarray. He was already upset, as surely a wild trike ride would unsettle the rigid, uncompromising goblin, but finding me in his forbidden room had to have been worth double the compensation. I had to think fast. I shut the book, flipped it, and began to stroke the cover. “Pretty book.” I said, smiling sweetly. The dumbass isn’t shot for knowing what she shouldn’t. He glared at me. I could almost hear the gears grinding in his shiny bald head. “Yes. Step away, now.” He moved toward the desk. There was a raised button on his desk, and I thought I knew what it did. If he called up a bruiser, I was sure to be sent away. Killed, in all likelihood. I’m not proud of this next bit. I’m not proud of it one whit. “You lonely, hon? You look lonely.” I murmured, batting my eyelashes and putting on my most seductive smile. I leaned on his desk, letting my nightgown part a little to reveal just a little cleavage. What good was a Body if I didn’t use it? His eyes went where I directed them. His hand moved from the buzzer and he rounded the desk, peering at me sheepishly over his spectacles. “Y-yes. Lonely.” He coughed. Sufficiently distracted, I tried to make my exit. “Perhaps we could chat some time. About the weather. Over a ‘kola?” I inched toward the door. I began to move past him, but his hand found my arm. “Don’t be a tease now, doll.” His smile was almost friendly. I remember wishing the door was just a bit closer. And that’s when I learned what it was like to have a tiny grunting man between my thighs. I can’t say I was impressed. After that, well… He visited me more often. Every day, about. I think I preferred the neglect, but he was kind in his own way. Wasn’t into any of the freaky stuff the local street rats talked about back home. I was willing to believe he even cared a little bit when he started buying me pretty dresses and shoes, but that all changed the day Deathwing came. Amid all the chaos and screaming, he rode back in from his appointment, dashed into the office, grabbed the book, and left without one look my way. Part 3: Boldness You bet your ass I followed him. He had a roadster waiting, another of the big wigs driving, and wheeled off before I could get to the parking garage. A crash from the house behind me announced the flying ball of magma that had taken out the room that had been my prison for the past few years. What had I learned in that time? Not sure. What hadn’t I forgotten? “Hey! Wake up y’great hunk of scrap metal! Got places to be!” I screeched at the nearest trike. It rumbled to life and I hopped on. No time for questions, no time for crazy, I rode off as fast as it would go. As soon as I’d cleared the drive out onto the main highway, it was apparent that there was nowhere to go but away. The volcano that had long stood sentinel over the island belched black smoke and red hot magma, its fury filling the sky with flaming projectiles that exploded on impact. Everywhere craters marked the deaths of whoever had been caught underneath the onslaught. I rode to the docks, and all the ships but one had already pushed out to sea. The one remaining had a familiar bust on it, and my heart sank. Gallywix’s yacht floated patiently in the harbor, a line of desperate gobs loaded up with macaroons and valuables all waiting to board. Two familiar bruisers barred their way, asking for their names from a long list. Many were turned away. I spotted Nob in line, and parked the trike. “You move and I’ll feed you to the nearest shredder.” I growled as I ran off toward the line. I didn’t get far, and thankfully, neither did the trike. I was turned away before I could even make it up the ramp. I couldn’t even dream of affording the escape fee. Yes. That’s goblin life for yah- there’s a fee to live. I got the trike back to what was left of our shop before it decided it was done being helpful. As I toppled off the peeved work of machinery, I noted the distinct lack of shop-ness that was the garage. Combined with the fact that the shop had been deserted for the past few years, it’d been hit by a bit of fiery debris and was reduced to smoldering rubble. There really wasn’t a whole lot left. Seemed our memories were just as flammable as everything else. Well. Almost everything else. I didn’t grow up with many loves. I didn’t crush on local boys; I didn’t pine after my future husband and the rock he’d weld onto my finger. I didn’t bother with stupid fantasies of being someone’s only lady. I have to say, though. I loved that trike. My other half was a machine, and you’ll never guess what I found waiting underneath the shelter of the aluminum siding of the demolished garage. The metal was warped from the fire, the tires missing air, and the fuel tank punctured, but Cog’s sake, it was whole and it was my ''trike. I think I might have cried. Maybe a little. Tears of joy. Alright, alright, who am I kidding? I balled like a swaddled gob-brat, I was so happy to see that rusted hunk of metal. I wrapped my arms around the handlebars and cried while the world came down around me, and it wasn’t until it started to stutter to life of its own accord that I understood I wasn’t going to die there. ''Rumble When I looked up, though, I was nearly positive I was already dead. HISSSSSSSSS Wind whipped around me in a frenzied state, blurring colors, stealing breath from my lips. It was angry, howling, and blistering hot. I thought I could make out a figure in the maelstrom, but keeping my eyes open too long wasn’t an option. I closed them again, making peace with my end. ROOOAAAARRR It was scalding. It was so hot the edges of my skin seared away from my bones. I remember screaming. I remember wild, desperate fear. I also remember the moment that I decided it couldn’t end this way. Not on fire, of all the things that could’ve ended me. “Stop it!” I screamed. There was abrupt, complete silence. I was cool. The earth beneath my boots was solid, no longer shaking with the volcano’s fury. I looked up, and the trike held steady beneath me, smooth handles meeting my palms of their own accord. There was a click, and it started, the engine purring to life. I looked behind me, waiting for the inevitable explosion as the leaky fuel tank ignited, but it was gone. It seemed the explosion had already happened. In its place sat a peculiar beast of fire, shackled wrists folded over each other in the most bizarre pout I’d ever seen. There was no time to question it. I looked out toward the bay, and sure enough, Gallywix’s yacht was leaving. There wasn’t time to do anything but do. I kicked up the brake, pulled on the gas, and the trike roared forward so quickly I only barely held on. I counted the seconds as the world transformed into a crushing blur. One. The highway was a splash of grey beneath me, the buildings a smattering of smoky bronze. The falling magma a few spots of angry red. Two. I felt my face leak out my ears, and my boots fly off. Three. My grip on the handlebars was failing. If only I could hold on. The docks were closing in fast. Four. The trike came to an abrupt halt. I didn’t. I somehow missed landing in the crowd of desperate gobs watching their last escape pull away. I somehow missed plunging into the churning water between myself and said escape. I somehow missed the promise of gruesome death by paddle wheel on the back of the boat. I somehow missed plowing into the gun-wielding gobs that patrolled around the prone group of goblins who had most definitely just sold themselves into slavery, and I landed squarely on a ledge just below Gallywix’s grinning bronze mug. Don’t care how, don’t know how, but Cog’s sake, I’d made it off the island. I’d made it to safety. At least until we sailed straight into the middle of some stinkin’ warships layin’ into each other. I leapt off the yacht before the first cannonball hit, but couldn’t get far enough away before the explosion sent me spinning wildly into the dark depths of cold ocean. Burble. A pair of hands reached down around my shoulders, and pulled me up to the air, and after that, I don’t recall much. All’s I know is I woke up on some tropical island and from there got stuck with the rest of the gobs who’d bought their lives. I guess it’s pretty clear what happened after that. We joined the Horde. 'Azshara' After several months of working odd jobs, she was able to scrape up enough gold to rent out a small garage beneath one of the rocketway terminus' in Azshara. There she began to tinker with her peculiar feats of engineering: A trike that ran without a driver, at incredible speeds, and a flying machine that ran on water alone, again with a capacity to fly off without a driver. To observers, these machines were clunky, dangerous, and unpredictable at best, but to those who seek the patent, it showed signs of knowledge beyond a typical engineer. Greesie returned one evening to find the shop had been demolished. Her flying machine, trike, and all her spare parts were fused hopelessly together in a superheated clump of metal where her garage used to be. Reports filed in Orgrimmar and Bilgewater Harbor would indicate it was a gas fire, caused by a rocket malfunction from the terminus above her place of residence. Greesie is convinced it was not an accident. Additional Information Oilex "All they ever made were crappy products that replaced the only viable alternatives on the market. Their dealings were notoriously corrupt and ruthlessly efficient. Their biggest crimes, and the dealings that got the most attention from the Rags, was their abuse of patent law. So many gobs claiming that they had the idea first, and then were mysteriously silenced days later. Everyone with a good head on their shoulders knew to avoid them at all costs, and to keep anything of value absolutely secret." -Greesie Wrenchwield This corporation would have dominated the 'useless junk' market. It makes bad hair gel that smells like petroleum, food choppers that break after one use, engines that have a one hour warranty, and the famous perfume that smelled like, you guessed it, petroleum. They were able to do this because their legal team was staffed by the best lawyers Kezan ever produced, and their 'market research' division was populated largely by bruisers, mercenaries, and greedy gobs of the violent sort who simply snuffed out the competition and picked up new products from the hapless former-owners of such intellectual property as patents or schematics. Their business practices, while half reviled by their competition, are also the subject of much praise, as their corporation was one of the few to survive the explosion and subsequent sinking of Kezan. Their operations continue on a much smaller scale in markets in and around the goblin slums in Orgrimmar and in Bilgewater Harbor. The CEO is unknown, and the recent Rags reporting would refer to the company only as 'Oilex Corp.' The changeover from Kezan resulted in a much more low-key business strategy that no longer results in the open sort of corruption that would get them in hot water with local authorities and established businesses in Orgrimmar. The Rags, as always, will complain of greased palms in their dealings, but such isn't uncommon when dealing with goblins. (( On an OoC note, this company was created and initially utilized by Wezil of the Shadow Council server, and I am borrowing the concept with his permission for this roleplay. Any and all interraction with this fictional company will have to happen through me, but I'm open to branching out this idea. It's mostly there to play the third leg on Greesie's crazy-stool, so she has something to be angry at, and/or afraid of. )) The Mysterious Patent If ever Greesie mentions a patent or schematic during her roleplay, it's in reference to something her father put together during her childhood. This is the whole reason why Oilex (backed by the bank) went after her father in her backstory. It's unclear, upon asking her, if she has it, they have it, or if it went down with Kezan, or if, indeed, it ever made it onto paper in the form of a schematic. Her insistent, endless tinkering with various forms of engine mechanics seems to indicate their work had something to do with that, but as is part of her personality, she likely won't talk about it. This is something that could eventually come out in roleplay. See the next section for tips on jumping in on this plotline. Storyline Involvement (( There are several places to get involved in this story. Greesie was sold into slavery to cover the debts of her father- the man owed an awful lot of money. Those who might still have an interest in acquiring the remainder might notice her rather hard-won freedom and find it... profitable. Still others might find that Oilex pays top dollar for recovering 'stolen' intellectual property for them. There's potential for word of the amazing mysterious schematic to get out, and anyone looking to make a buck could surely benefit from ripping the secrets of elemental engineering from Greesie's lips. While she is not a damsel, there will be aspects of paranoia present, as she is largely unable to prove most of what's happened to her, including the destruction of her shop in Azshara. Anyone willing to help on that end will be able to, at their leisure. One thing I ask, however, is that any and all additions to the plotline run through the player, first. I'm more than willing to expand the plot to include whomever, but I will not do so without discussing it first! I cherish OoC communication to keep things organized and tidy, and more often than not seek to work toward an open ending, rather than a defined conclusion. )) OoC Information See my User Page for a full run-down of the details of my roleplay preferences. Category:Characters Category:Horde Category:Horde Shaman Category:Engineer Category:Goblin